‘Ganbaro’, keep fighting on

Looking back on photos taken since the March earthquake is like one more aftershock. Now that the cracks have been plastered over and the roads evened out, you would never guess what happened. It is hard to believe this is the same city shaken by one of the most powerful earthquakes in recorded history, and it’s hard to believe that I was really there. But closer to the coast, it’s a different story. The media has been full of images of the devastation wrought by the tsunami and the crippled nuclear plant at Fukushima. But to focus solely on this imagery is to ignore the full picture.

The media tell us that northern Japan has returned to normality at breakneck speed. But that appearance is deceptive: public speeches start with reference to the Tohoku Dai ShinSai (earthquake); conversations with strangers begin with “Where were you when it hit?” No one who experienced will ever forget.

Mostly the papers told only half the story. Nobody knew the full situation at the nuclear plants, probably not even TEPCO’s own workers – the management were slow to release vital information. It is now known that reactors at the Fukushima power plant went into meltdown immediately after the tsunami, but with no reliable information at the outset, there was speculation about nuclear fallout as far away as Europe and the US. But now it seems the problem will remain localized. For those who had been told to leave their homes and livelihoods behind, with no idea when they might return, this is cold consolation.

The aim with these photos is to tell a different story, one of recovery. The scenes of destruction are by now familiar; after the disaster, the big agencies vied for the most dramatic shot of a ship perched precariously on the side of a supermarket, or the most distressing scenes of loss. This feeds the same dark desire that makes us stare at accidents.

In this selection, scenes of destruction should be read within the context of the other photographs; in particular those of the volunteers at the coast, the buildings still standing in Sendai and people gathered together – not just surviving together, but triumphing together.

Immediately after the quake, before I knew the full scale of the disaster, I feared the worst. I thought people might turn on one another, and perhaps being a foreigner would make me a target. The truth was very different. More than once, I had people approach me on the street, asking if I needed any help or had enough to eat, when they were themselves struggling. I later discovered that this is a common phenomenon; chaotic and violent anarchy following a disaster is largely a myth. It is in times of crisis that the human spirit can show its true strength, through solidarity.

Working at the coast as a volunteer wasn’t pretty work – short on glamour and heroics. For the most part, you’re digging through muck for hours, clearing a field to be planted, or removing destroyed furnishings from the husks of houses. But, looking back on a clear field after a day’s work is very satisfying, even it’s only one field out of a thousand. Anyone I asked out there at the coast felt this was the most redemptive, consoling thing they could do. People poured in from around Japan, and abroad, to help. Occasionally, something would crop up in the wreckage that would remind you of the immensity of the human tragedy involved. For me, the most heart wrenching were children’s toys and pictures I found amidst piles of rubble. Finding these things, you can’t help but think of their owners, and pray they made it out of the way in time. (So many were caught up and swept away.)

So, with these photos, I want to show the recovery. Sendai, Tohoku and the rest of Japan have now returned, on the surface, to normality. (The changes lie buried deep beneath the surface.) Ubiquitous are the “Ganbaro Tohoku!” posters: “Tohoku, don’t give up, keep fighting!” (Tohoku is the name of the region of Northern Honshu). This has become something of a slogan in the region. This is not universally loved. At a concert recently, one singer told of his unease with this slogan, because it universalizes the problem. His point was that everyone’s challenges were different, and here I’d have to agree with him: my own were paltry.

An elderly neighbour of mine, whose house only has two inhabitable rooms since her roof caved in this April, told me that her life has been one of Ganbaro. She said this is more difficult, but really no different. This kind of resolve is common. Mostly, the only clue that indicates the earthquake even happened is in people’s eyes.

Recently, I was lucky enough to meet a group of elementary school students on a school outing. Naturally, the question of “where were you on March 11th?” came up. The children were amazed to hear that I was in Sendai, just like them. And just as surprised when I told them that in Ireland, my home, there were no earthquakes, and the ShinSai had been my first. In return, I asked if they had been frightened by the aftershock the day before, which registered 4 on the Japanese Shindo scale – a significant earthquake in itself. One boy, Kenshiro Hoshi, 11, looked me straight in the eye and answered “futsu” (normal). As long as he was with his friends and family he would be okay, he said, even if it was scary.

Sendai, Miyagi, and Japan generally, are still recovering from the aftermath of the disasters of 11 March. The chances of so much tragedy in one place at one time leave the mind reeling: the arbitrariness of it all is still hard to take in. The quest to move on is marked by fear, anger and sometimes emotional scenes of outrage. But most of all, the survivors of these terrible events are determined to go on, no matter the cost. To observer and, onlookers, this is a disaster zone. To the people of Sendai, Miyagi and Tohoku, it is home.

Rónán MacDubhghaill

Writer and research consultant with Eranos, Paris, and is currently based in Sendai.